Daily Yellowstone journal., 1887-07-29
A POETS BITTER EXPERIENCE.
The Story Told Of a Rhymester Who Il
Known Only as Horse Editor.

The story Told Of a Rhymester Who Il
known Only as Horse Editor.
How many men would soberly write
themselves down as poets by profession
in the yearly census? / know one poet,
really a poet, who has published four
volumes Of poetry-l use the much
abused word advisedly and in its highest
sense-and / suppose that o one-third
of his friends and acquaintance have any
notion that his literary work takes any
other direction than that OF Journalism;
he certainly would give journalism as his
profession, and | doubt if there be any
department of poets in the commercial
directory of this city. Another poet l
have known is a s~tockbroker in Wall
street: a third edits a most unpoetic and
commercial publication: a fourth writes
reports on horse races for a daily paper,
and is well known for his graphic de-
scriptons and knowing prophesies con-
corning horse flesh.
This last poet is a stirring, lively fell
low. with a family TO support, and he
signs his little surreptitious volume of
verses with an assumed name; he would
not have il known at .'the office that
the pretty book. with its exquisite dedi-
cation IA the writer's wife, and its ten
der love poems to her, was written by
him. for four times the money that its
publication cost him. The wife knows
it, half a dozen intimate friends and the
publisher know. but nobody else knows
nor cares who or what the author is.
Two hundred copies Of the book We're
sent to newspaper offices in different
parts Of the country. fifty to such men
and women as had helped the poet
through their lives or writings, twenty
five were sold, and 225, the balance Of
the edition, stand on a shelf in the dark
cellar under the booksellers office.
Poetry is a drug in the market is the
A.. common phrase Of the publishers to-day,
and yet il is hard 10 believe that there is
no use for the poet in the present and
the future. What did my friend, the
horse racing poet, get back from his
little volume. that cost him so MANY
sleepless nights, such exquisite anxiety,
such g~rievous birth pangs, such painful.
loving labor, so many hard earned dol
lars! A large bill from his publisher.
100 newspaper criticisms, some Of which
Knocked. some Of which ~patronized. some
quoted, some philosophical on, a few Of
which praised his venture into verse.
Ii was my fortune TO sit with him and
his wife in their wee CHEEKY parlors and
read the criticisms, which at the end of
every week he brought home, clipped
from newspapers, magazines, reviews and
theatre programmes from every section
Of the country. Very few Of the writers
had read the book, and fewer had thought
about it. ! was surprised 10 find how
quietly he took some Of these notices.
which showed so plainly that the writers
had barely skinned the volume and had
used it merely as n peg to hang a para
graph upon. The little fierce wife, who
had gone without a new frock or bonnet
the whole year through, who had pinched
and economical her luxuriously natured
self in a thousand different ways in order
that the book-her book-written for
love Of her. might he fittingly printed.
would cry with angry disappointment
anu HNHulhllN lT HFI HuSndill. but he
took il all patiently, ~heroically. He read
the pert wit at his expense. the heartless
ridicule. the lukewarm, p~erfunctory
praise from a critic who was under obi
cations to the house which brought out
the book, the Interpretations. the article
written by a man who had read the first
and last verses Of a happy idyl and mis-
took it for a tragedy and proceeded to
reduce the poet to fragments, to bray
him in a mortar for serving the tragic
u in these days when the public
wants c~hecrfulness and comedy. All these
he read with n calm gravity.
He pasted all the extracts carefully into
a book; they took up many pages, and on
one, the last in the book, he put the half
dozen real criticisms out uf the whole lot.
Two Of these praised him and encouraged
him. two criticised him from a high and
intelligent standpoint; one told him that
he had lived too late; and the sixth dis
passionately pointed cut To him what a
waste Of time the writing Of the hook had
been. Around this page the poet drew a
line with his red chalk pencil. aud then
put the book away, and began writing
out the notes he had made ON the race al
the Country club that afternoon.
This experience Of my friends has led
me 10 much speculation rs Ia the poet Of
the future. What manner of man, what
style Of writer will he be.-Boston Tran
script.